Lets have a drink
by IShipIt32
Summary: House had been trying to gather the nerve to finally ask her out for months and with his perfect timing, he manages to it in front of Stacy, which for some reason, doesn't agree to well with Cameron.


**A/N: I own nothing. I haven't written a piece of good old House/Cameron fan fiction in so long, but this is my OTP and I miss them so much. I apologize if house is a little OOC but I think that maybe with time and the right amount of misery, he might get tired of being alone and try to do something about it.**

 **This is set way before the last season, so Wilson is okay because we all want Wilson to be okay.**

* * *

"Doctor Cameron!" You call out her name loudly across the hallway; it's not often anymore that you find her roaming the floor where your office is. Now she's always on the first floor, working at the ER and even helping out at the clinic. Sometimes you go down there just to look at her for a little while, she never notices you, she's always too busy. Once or twice you've been there to clock in a few hours of clinic duty after threats to bodily harm by Cuddy. Finding Cameron walking past your office door would be a sign if you believed in any god or deity, but you don't, so it's just chance.

You see how she freezes and then takes two steps back, you step away from your desk and leave your office and its unwanted visitor behind. You stand before her, slightly closer than necessary, but she doesn't budge, and you take a second to look at her. Her hair is darker, still not the waves of brown that you like so much but at least it doesn't look bleached anymore. She's wearing those awful pink scrubs that she seems to love so much, and you remember that once you overheard some med student saying that under the right light you could see through them. Your eyes wander to her waist, the curve of her hips, maybe you ought to test that knowledge sometime.

"House." Her voice isn't warm like it used to be for a few days after the Monster Truck non-date, but it isn't the icy tone it took after that failed real date. Those events seem like a lifetime away, in truth it has only been two or three years, but for some reason, your brain decided to store that knowledge.

"How about you and I get a drink tonight? I'll pick you up on the bike and everything" You are trying to sound casual, but you're trying too hard. Your voice comes out slightly sarcastic, the intention of bringing the bike is an excuse to have her wrap her arms around you, but once the words are out, you think that they might sound mocking. You avoid her eyes, start playing with your cane.

There's a moment of silence, and then you look at her, green-blue eyes are shifting from the background and back to you. It takes you a minute to realize what she was staring at Stacy. The Wicked Witch of the North had felt the need to send her flying monkey to your office, and there she was, sitting across your desk and staring at you two. Cameron looks at you, then back at Stacy, you see a wave of sadness covering her eyes. Fuck. She turns to leave, won't even talk to you, and in the background you see Stacy moving. Double fuck.

"It's not because of her, I swear." You're actually trailing behind her now, you've never trailed behind anyone. Well, your mother, but she doesn't count. Cameron stops a few steps away from the elevator, the perfect position for Wilson to watch everything if he decides to step out of his office. You don't care, the timing wasn't perfect, but you did want to ask her out on a date, a non-date, you do better in those. "I have reservations."

You do, you have reservations for today at a nightclub that plays awesome live music and isn't too far from her place. You had reservations for last Tuesday too but didn't ask her to come with you. You made reservations for the Thursday two weeks ago in a restaurant that Wilson said was amazing but casual. You had tickets to a movie for the Friday three weeks before and the flyer for free a jazz presentation in the park on the Monday before that. You've had things planned for at least a month, but you never had the guts to ask her to come, and now you've ruined it.

She sighs. She doesn't trust you and she is right not to. You promised not to crush her and you did. She asked for a date and you took it as an opportunity to destroy any kind of feelings she might have had towards you. So how do you make her believe that you've been planning things for the past two months? That ever since you woke up at two in the morning with unbearable pain in your leg and your mind drifted to her and the way she smiled and looked at you and that helped sooth the pain until the Vicodin finally kicked in you haven't been able to stop thinking about her. You haven't stopped wondering what would happen if you weren't such an ass, and then if you weren't such a coward.

"Everybody lies, right?" You want to protest, tell her that you can prove that you're telling the truth, but she is quicker. "I don't want to be someone's pity date, and I don't want to be used for jealousy."

"You're not. I've been meaning to do this. This has nothing to do with her."

But Stacy is now leaning against the doorframe, an entertained spectator of the little show you're the star in. This is not you; you don't beg, don't follow, you're the one who walks out, who leaves the other party with their explanations hanging in the air. Only this time you know you've messed up, and you're not too sure how much more Cameron is willing to put up with. You want her, need her, it took you long enough to figure out. It also took you a hallucination, but what other way would there be for life to show you that she's the one you ought to take a chance with.

"No." For someone who used not to be able to deny you, she's saying no a lot now. "You could have had asked any other day, any other time, but you chose today. You chose the day you could do it in front of her, what are you trying to prove? That you're way over her? She saw the way I used to look at you, the way I still look at you. I know she has, you have too and so has everybody. I wish I could stop it, but I can't help it."

You should feel proud that a pretty young thing like Cameron used to look at you so lovingly, still does look at you in a somewhat affectionate way. But somehow her words are making you feel ashamed, luckily for you, there's no one else in the hallway, your team is watching the whole thing through the glass panes, but you're sure they can't really make out the words. That will be worst though; they will just fill in the blanks with whatever they think happened.

"I won't be your sloppy second, House. I just won't."

The elevator doors open then, Cuddy and Wilson step out and she steps in. You're left frozen in your place. Behind you, you can hear Stacy's heels clicking on the linoleum floor. To your right, your team is now faking work. Before you, Cuddy and Wilson look as lost as you feel. Triple fuck. You turn around, walk past the glass panes, past Stacy, back to your office and over the balcony. Wilson will find you there later, once Stacy catches him up with the latest gossip. You'll be waiting, and in the meantime, you'll drink a glass or two of the scotch you hid in his office for special occasions or emergencies.

By the time Wilson finds you, you've drunk the glass you poured for yourself and the one you poured for him. He looks at you disapprovingly; if it's because of the drink or the whole thing with Cameron, you don't know. What you do know is that it's past five in the afternoon, that your team is still working or pretending to work in the conference room, that Cameron's shift ended an hour ago and that Stacy is, hopefully, long gone. Wilson's couch is comfier than the one in your office, and you're grateful for it. You're also grateful for the games on your phone and the fact that Wilson forced you to buy one of those new devices that had more than just Snake or Pong on them.

"Talk to me, Wilson." You say, caving into his silence. You know you've probably walked into his tramp, but you don't care. There's a high chance that Wilson has seen or talked to Cameron after the entire episode, he did take over an hour to get back to his office. You wait for a minute, then two, three. Usually, Wilson takes only two minutes to create what he feels is angst in the atmosphere, but as the clock keeps ticking, you start to think that maybe this time he really isn't talking to you. "I am actually asking you to mingle into my life."

Wilson looks at you from behind a file; his brown eyes show disappointment, something you're used to seeing. He puts the file down, runs a hand through his lush hair and lets a sight out. The drama queen, you're the one who's in a rather fucked up situation.

"Just go home, House." He says and goes back to his paperwork.

For once, you listen to his advice. You jump back to your office, pick up your backpack and keys, lock your drawers and turn off your computer, and you're out. You don't say goodbye to your team; they can figure out things on their own. You stop by Cuddy's office, stand there at the door and stare at her. It never fails, she looks at you, and there's something resembling guilt in her eyes. She attempts to get up from behind the desk but you start moving, you don't need her fake guilt, you'd rather have her actual guilt.

You make it as far as two blocks away from home before taking a quick detour. The cold weather, the easy drive, the look of Cameron's sad eyes, they all make it a great excuse to take the first turn on the right and park the car in front of the bar. They know you there, they might actually like you because they never put pickles in your sandwiches and always pour a generous amount of alcohol. The waitress by the bar smiles at you; sometimes you flirt with her, a girl who's not twenty but maybe even thirty years younger than you. Not tonight, though, not when you were supposed to be getting ready to pick up a girl you actually like to enjoy music that makes you feel happy.

The other great thing about that bar is that they never cut you off, you have to be really acting up for them to cut you off and put you in a cab home. That's one of the advantages of saving the owner's daughter, that and the casual discounts. But even in good bars where they like you there comes a time for the last call and the previously-pretty-now-blurry bartender ignores your request for another drink and places a glass of sparkling water in front of you instead. She tells you it's time to go home and offers to call a cab; you give her the address without thinking.

You don't know what sobers you up faster: the screaming taxi driver, the freezing air or the sight of Cameron's building before you. It's somewhere past two in the morning; the temperatures keep dropping and there's not another cab in sight, you debate yourself if you should feel defeated or take the bull by the horns. Cameron is already mad at you, might as well make the most of it.

The alcohol makes it easier to climb the stairs to her second-floor apartment. There's a dim light in the corridor, a door to the right and two doors to the left, breathing in, you knock on the door with your cane. No response. You tap, again and again, a few seconds in between knocks, creating a rhythm without really meaning. After a minute or so the door flies open, you're about to comment on how she should have checked who it was but Cameron has moved to a side and is waiting for you to step in. You don't. Because you're an ass and it's almost three in the morning, and there are remains of sleep in her eyes.

"Come in before someone calls the cops." She urges you, her voice slightly thicker, it's normal to find that sexy, right?

"You wouldn't," you say, your eyes wandering up and down her body.

"I wouldn't. Mrs. Rodgers two doors down would; she loves the drama."

Thick, soft voice; the voice that came to your mind two months ago in the middle of agonizing pain, the that keeps coming to your mind when you're alone at night. You step into the apartment, a few lights are on, and she mumbles something about taking a seat. She disappears into what you remember leads to the kitchen and starts shuffling things; she's probably making coffee. You decide not to tell her that coffee won't sober you up, might as well give her that for not yelling at you. Bored, you walk into the kitchen area, she has her back to you, and you can't help but stare. Thin flannel pants, cotton long sleeve shirt, you can't remember if she was wearing a bra, her house is warm, all about her usually is.

"I will admit my timing was not appropriate." You say from where you stand between the kitchen and the living room, her body tenses and you want to tell her to unclench. "It's true; I have been trying to ask you out for a while." She turns to look at you, the smell of her coffee brewing makes your heart soften. "You're off tomorrow. That's why I needed to ask you out today. I've been trying to ask you out since last Wednesday."

"Why?" You can tell that she didn't want to ask, that she probably thinks she has walked into a tramp, but curiosity got the best of her. You're thankful for curiosity.

"You were off last Tuesday, I chickened out and didn't ask you out so I figured I'd ask you that Wednesday, it didn't quite work out." She's looking at you now, not sure if she should believe you or not. "Do you need evidence? I have it; it's all in my backpack… well, that's in my car, but I have it."

The coffee is ready now but she's silent. So she pours you a cap, adds two sugars and pushes the mug to your hand. "Drink this. Sleep on the couch, sober up. I'm going back to bed."

Sleep doesn't come easy, not with the coffee you just had and the turmoil of emotions going on in your head. When the day breaks, you call a cab and get dropped off at the bar. Your car is still there, checking that there is no damage, you get in and drive home considering calling in sick or skipping work, but then something comes into your mind, an idea, a crazy idea, and you decide that maybe you'll just go in later than usual.

The ER was slammed when she walked through the door, throwing her purse behind the nurse station desk, Cameron put on a pair of gloves and got to work. Three hours later, when the last patient was sent to surgery, she walked to the desk to retrieve her things already dreading the amount of paperwork that she could have to handle after that bus accident.

"Doctor Cameron" one of the nurses called for her just as she was walking to her office. "Dr. House dropped this off for you yesterday, said to give it to you personally."

Cameron took the thick envelope in her hand and walked straight to her office, after closing the door slightly harder than needed, she placed the envelope on her desk and sank into her chair. House… she didn't know what was up with him lately, not that she ever really knew. His behavior had been so strange, pretty much telling her that they'd be going out in front of his ex-girlfriend, the only woman she was sure he had loved. For a fraction of a second, she had felt hope when he approached her and asked her out and then it all came crumbling down as she saw the woman standing behind him. It had pained her to reject him, there was a part of her that would always be in love with him, but over the years she had learned how to silence it. And then he had shown up at her apartment, he was drunk, that was the only explanation to his behavior, she would have called what he did begging but it was House and he never would. Tired, Cameron ran her fingers through her name, House's scrawl was something she'd recognize anywhere.

Throwing the contents over the table, it took her a minute to understand what was going on, what she was seeing on her desk. Then, one by one, she started reading the pieces of paper before her.

Do you need evidence? I have it.

His voice rang in her head; he did have evidence. There were unused tickets, reservation confirmations, flyers for shows and expositions that coincidentally were on the same day as her days off. She knew that House could have fabricated everything, it wouldn't be so hard to do, but deep down she was confident that he hadn't, that everything she held in her hands was real. Taking a deep breath in, Allison Cameron gathered all the papers and placed them back inside the envelope.

The elevator ride to his floor was longer than she remembered, longer than it had been coming down the day two days ago, but finally, she found herself in his level and walking to his office. In the diagnosis room, three heads turned to follow her as she entered House's office without even knocking.

"Doctor Cameron" he greeted from his desk as she approached him.

Cameron turned to send an ugly look at the six pair of eyes that seemed glued to her, just the motion of her turning was enough to make them look away.

"You had evidence."

"I told you I did," House said nonchalantly, his glasses sliding slightly towards the end of his nose and Cameron had to take a moment to breath deeper, "I told you it wasn't about her."

"Everybody lies."

"My god, doctor Cameron, I never took you for a cynic."

His voice was playful, his eyes seemed brighter, and Cameron knew then that it was true, that he had asked her out because he wanted to and not to mess with Stacy. He needed to work on his timing. She wondered what would happen if they went out again; they had a history, their one date was a disaster while their non-date was very pleasant. She wondered what she'd get if she agreed to get a drink with him, go to a jazz club, agree to anything of the things he had previously thought out for them.

"You don't have to go in until late on Saturday," House said, his eyes going back to his computer screen.

"Should I worry that you know my schedule so well?"

"Maybe. There's this club I like… it has live music sometimes; this Friday will be one of those times… their drink menu is good; the food is okay. Would you care to join me?"

Cameron looked at him intently, all those years of work looking out for tiny details, were paying off. She saw a hint of doubt behind his eyes, how his hand was gripping the mouse slightly tighter than needed, he was a bit nervous, and she knew that this was his final card.

"Okay," she agreed and saw him relax "You'll pick me up, bring the bike not your car. I like the bike."

"I'll get you flowers; you seemed to like that last time. It's a date."

"Yes… except for the date part. We do better at those."

House smiled then, a big bright smile that almost never showed on his face anymore and the sight of it made Cameron's heart skip. She was in over her head, and she knew it, but judging by the look on House's face, so was he.

"Yes, we do better at those."


End file.
